Mulder's Razor
by William Griner
Summary: Mulder and Scully enlist former FBI profiler Frank Black's help in recapturing federal fugitive Lucy Butler. The agents, particularly Mulder, find themselves baffled and disturbed at Frank's warning: In catching Lucy, the devil really is in the details. This story fits in Season 7 of "The X-Files" after "Millennium" and immediately before "Orison."


**Mulder's Razor**

By William Griner

H. Carl Moultrie Courthouse

Washington, D.C.

Former FBI Agent Frank Black stood alone at the corner of Indiana Avenue NW, weighing his options since the proceeding he had come to witness would not happen today.

He checked his watch. At 10:15 a.m., it would be hours before his return flight home departed.

Too late for breakfast, still early for lunch.

He was still thinking when one of the glass doors at the main entrance to the courthouse flew open, spilling forth an assortment of attorneys, uniformed and plainclothes police, U.S. marshals and court personnel. Frank did not expect there to be many journalists or spectators in the loose group.

That was how he wished to think of himself today, as just a spectator to a long and grim process.

He was about to turn away from sizing up the crowd when a man easily distinguishable as law enforcement stormed outside. Sunlight glistened on the .40-caliber on the guy's hip.

Tall, conservative haircut, navy-blue suit.

Trailing him and arguing some indiscernible point was the partner, a woman roughly the same age.

Auburn hair, intelligent and piercing blue eyes, a stylish but professional black pantsuit.

Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.

Small world.

Snapping at each other, the pair might have charged past Frank in the throng of people now milling around the front of the federal building if he had not called out to them. Mulder, doing a double take, acknowledged the other man with a quick nod and then shook his hand.

"What business do you have here, Mr. Black?"

"The same as yours."

"We were under the impression," Scully said, "that you had walked away from consulting."

"I'm not here in a professional capacity."

Mulder had forgotten about the heated discussion with his partner and was now focused on Frank. "This trial is personal to you?"

"We should all be concerned about the outcome."

Scully, crossing her arms, glanced from her partner's curious expression to Frank's unreadable one. "Something tells me, Mr. Black, that what happened here this morning doesn't surprise you."

Frank had met these two agents recently at a time when he was so enmeshed in personal drama that otherwise pertinent details about Mulder and Scully had not registered with him. They had first paid him a visit when Frank was under a voluntary examination period at the Hartwell Psychiatric Hospital. Through the machinations of the Millennium Group, he had been removed as precisely as a chess piece from the FBI so that he would feel adrift. That sense of helplessness and a fear for his daughter Jordan's safety were supposed to send Frank running back to the Group. The members wanted to exploit Frank's ability. Conspirators like Peter Watts discovered much too late that the Group had become so compromised and corrupted from an outside force that it was just a matter of time before it was crushed and dissolved. Frank, for his part, had been left to fight his late wife Catherine's parents for custody of Jordan. To disprove allegations that he was unhinged from paranoia, Frank had submitted to a thorough testing by Hartwell's medical personnel. Frank wasn't crazy. That professional assessment was affirmed by the doctor who ended up asking his former patient for a private consultation on another case.

Now, standing on the street, Frank focused on the two agents. Mulder, the explorer of all things paranormal, was itching to dig into whatever had happened in the courthouse this morning because of how weird it was. Scully, trained as a medical doctor, would be looking for more down-to-earth explanations.

Scully, arms still crossed, half turned to watch a police cruiser with lights flashing and sirens blaring roar past them. When she shifted, sunlight reflected from the chain around her neck. She wore a cross. A gift, perhaps?

Rather than speculate on Scully's religious convictions, Frank addressed her comment. "Was I expecting a disappearance?" he said. "No, but it fits her style."

Mulder smiled. "What is her style?"

"She's not the kind of common criminal who fits a profile," Frank answered. "All that can accurately be said about her is that her methods depend on her objective."

"And you weren't here just to witness a dry arraignment," Scully said. "Despite your reluctance to get involved in FBI matters the last time we talked – "

Mulder interrupted his partner. "You wanted to be sure Lucy Butler was put away for good."

Frank didn't feel like standing around on the street, so he invited the agents to join him for a quick foray to Starbucks. Their curiosity was piqued enough to follow. They ordered drinks and selected a small table in the corner. Mulder noted that their host for this informal little gathering took the seat that he and Scully wanted. Frank's back was to the wall, and he had clear lines of sight to the entrances on his left and directly in front of him.

"Coming here," Mulder said, gesturing around the store. "Talking on the street, out in the open, concerned you."

Frank recognized that the agent had switched over to full profile mode and was gauging any paranoia on his part. "I appreciate caution, Agent Mulder, but the truth is, I wanted coffee." Leaning in, conspiratorially, he whispered, "I'm from Seattle."

Scully chuckled and attempted to disguise her amusement by taking a quick sip of her latte. It was the first time since their reunion that she had smiled.

Now, she turned serious again. "Let's compare notes about this morning."

"Lucy Butler was scheduled for arraignment," Frank said. "She disappeared from custody. Beyond that, well …"

Frank was a civilian now. Since the Bureau zealously guarded information even from other levels of law enforcement, it was highly unlikely that this former agent and consultant would have been briefed on what was shaping up to be an FBI blunder. If Frank knew more, it was because he had listened to chatter or had a unique perspective as an outsider.

It was this objective lens of Frank's that Mulder wanted to see through.

"Mr. Black, you have a record of pursuing Lucy Butler and her, umm, associates."

"Unsuccessfully."

Frank hated failure, but there it was, laid bare. When serial killer Dr. Ephraim Fabricant had somehow fled from a hospital following a kidney removal, Frank had questioned Lucy at her home in Fredericksburg, Va. She claimed to be Fabricant's wife, having exchanged vows online. Everything about that harrowing episode, from Fabricant's escape to the death of Frank's old friend Bob Bletcher, had been orchestrated by Lucy. The problem? No one, including Frank, could prove it so that a jury would convict her.

Most recently, Frank had encountered Lucy in Madison, Wis., where her list of murder victims included a federal prosecutor, State Attorney General John Saxum and his wife Una, and the gardener of the Saxum estate. That case had been a turning point. Frank no longer doubted who Lucy was. She had glared up at him from a hospital bed in their last exchange, when Frank thought he would have the upper hand. He told her he was no longer afraid of her.

And then the floor had shifted under Frank again.

Lucy had mentioned Jordan.

Threatened Frank's baby.

And that was why Frank was in Washington, D.C., this morning.

Mulder continued: "If you were in our position, what would your next move be?"

Without hesitation, Frank said, "Move on to the next case."

A long moment passed as Mulder gazed at the other man. He turned to his partner to determine whether he had missed anything. Scully, for her part, appeared as if her coffee had become unbearably bitter in her mouth.

"You think we should give up?" Mulder asked, irritated.

"That's not what I said."

"It's what I'm hearing," Mulder snapped. "You know, Mr. Black, I always admired your dedication and tenacity. A lot of agents in Behavioral Sciences take their old cases and cash in, writing books and popping up on talk shows. Not you. The Millennium Group cost you professionally and personally, and Scully and I understand that, we do. But you've never whined about it, you just keep fighting the good fight. Some concern you have with Lucy Butler caused you to fly here and ensure justice would be done. Why would Scully and I care any less than you do?"

Frank rested his hands flat on the table. "Agent Mulder, what role do you have in this case?"

"A support capacity. Scully and I are assisting with the interviews of court personnel."

To Scully, Frank asked, "What leads have been developed?"

"Lucy Butler could not have escaped without help," she said slowly. "We are looking for her accomplice."

"So, there's a working theory," Frank said. "Given what you've seen, what you can put your hands on, how did this co-conspirator help Lucy?"

"The surveillance cameras inside the building were working perfectly right up until the moment that she disappeared. Let's say a good hacker took the system offline. Then Lucy walked out …"

Frank nodded. "And there would be some sign of tampering, of looping."

Scully's head dipped forward slowly, thoughtfully. "I see where you're going, Mr. Black. The initial examination shows no indication of hacking."

"What about footage taken from outside the building? Traffic cameras, nearby businesses?"

"The whole block is being canvassed," Scully said. "Nothing so far."

Frank Black was not an expressive man and did not believe it necessary to persuade or to sell his analysis. You either took it or left it on the table. More than once in his days with the FBI and the Group, he had walked away from assemblies of law enforcement officers who had locked on to some piece of a case to the exclusion of more compelling evidence. These two agents did not suffer from such myopia. Mulder and Scully were just late to the game. Frank respected their commitment and integrity. Plus, he genuinely liked them. There was no harm in sharing what he knew, but it was best to just point them at the truth and let them do their own digging.

"I'm assuming the whole courthouse was swept," Frank said.

"With K9 units," Mulder answered. "Nothing on that front either, but … you knew that, right?"

Nearby, a uniformed D.C. officer wandered in and placed an order at the front counter. As the young barista took the cop's order, there was a moment of silence at the corner table. It was Frank who finally spoke.

"I'm sure there are plenty of nagging details that don't add up. Tell me, Agent Scully: What practical detail in this disappearance bothers you the most?"

The cop who had just ordered took his 16-ounce sleeved cup to the bar near the corner table. Scully watched him as he added sugar to the dark roast. Her eyes rested on the tools affixed to the cop's belt.

"The handcuffs and shackles," she said. "The orange jumpsuit."

"They were never found," Mulder said.

Frank said, "That's what you meant, wasn't it, Agent Scully?"

"If her accomplice did not free her and give her a change of clothing, then Lucy Butler fled from the courthouse on to a city street while chained hand and foot. One of the reasons why prisoners wear orange is because of its high visibility. And yet, no one saw anything."

"There one second," Frank said, "gone the next."

Unprompted, a passage of Old Testament scripture popped into his mind.

 _"From where do you come?"_

 _"From roaming about on the earth and walking around on it."_

The heat from the coffee cup he wrapped his hands around did nothing to dispel a sudden chill. While his two companions studied him, waiting expectantly for more insight, Frank thought about the last words Lucy Butler had said to him.

"Are you OK, Mr. Black?" Mulder asked.

"Excuse me," Frank said, rising from his seat. He reached in the pocket of his Eddie Bauer jacket and whipped out his cell phone. "I just need to check in with my daughter."

1476 Wicks St.

Equality, Illinois

If he had bought a paper or watched the national news, the Rev. Orison might have noticed that the striking brunette woman that he paid to clean his apartment bore a strong resemblance to a federal fugitive.

Current events, however, were not what troubled the 63-year-old man this particular morning.

Hunched over the small kitchen table, he was reading from the Bible and wrestling again with more timeless issues.

Right and wrong.

Good and evil.

Crime and punishment.

Along with the spiritual value of the words on these weathered pages, Orison felt a kinship with this particular Bible. It had been given to him as a gift early in his 22-year incarceration at Soledad State Prison. Convicted murderer Robert Gallen Orison had found new life after his parole. The old Bible also had a new purpose, accompanying its owner in his duties as a chaplain through Midwest penitentiaries.

Orison didn't realize how troubled he must look until Annie Martin spoke.

"The weight of the world is on your shoulders."

She startled him, her sudden presence in the kitchen like a black cat that had padded in silently and rubbed against his pants leg. He had been so intent on hearing the Word of God that he had forgotten that his visitor had been hard at work throughout his home.

Annie was gathering her supplies to leave. It never took her long to clean here because Orison, conditioned by his time as a ward of the state, kept everything in its place with no clutter. He did not own much, and with the meager amount of money he brought in, probably never would. One might guess that the reason he employed Sunshine Sparkle Services was to have someone to talk to each week, however briefly.

"Have a seat," Orison beckoned.

Those clear blue eyes of hers lit up, and then Annie shook her head quickly. She had pulled her long hair up into a bun this morning so it wouldn't get in her way, and she was wearing a baby-blue work shirt with the company logo stitched on the front. "Oh, I couldn't, Pastor. There you are, trying to get your sermon together, and … anyway, I was just about to take off."

"Please," Orison said, standing. "Join me for a cup of coffee."

"Well …"

He moved to the pantry, selected a cup and then filled it from the fresh pot that had been brewing. "How do you take yours?"

Annie thanked her host profusely and settled in at the table with him.

"Would I be terribly out of line," she asked, "if I told you what a blessing it is to come here?"

Her voice was smooth and feminine, like a fine instrument that Annie played to set a mood. She hinted at timidity, adopting a halting cadence, but Orison got the impression that she was well educated. There was no telling what she had seen, what she had done. Maybe the coy act was her way of putting others at ease and fitting in while she toiled away at a thankless job.

A boyish grin tugged at the corner of the old man's mouth. "I was just thinking the same thing, Miss Martin. I don't know what happened to the woman who used to come clean for me, but … you and I share similar viewpoints. I guess it all worked out for the best.

"I believe," Annie started to say and then paused. Gathering courage, she continued. "I believe that people are brought into our lives for a reason. We cross paths so someone might help us realize our purpose. That's why I said it's a blessing to visit with you."

"Oh, now," Orison said modestly, staring down at the table.

"It's true," she said, drawing out the last word dramatically. "Pastor, you don't get how much influence you have. Just from being around you, I've realized there is a better way to achieve my goals."

Annie reached over and patted his hand warmly. It was a simple gesture, a casual brush of soft fingers across Orison's rough ones, and instantly he was struck by a flood of memories from decades ago.

A high school dance?

That pretty country girl he had talked to, the one with the bridge of freckles across her nose.

Long before he had flirted with badness, wrapped his arms around the darkness.

A sharp intake of breath.

Just as quickly as Annie Martin's fingers enveloped Orison's, they were retracted.

There one second, gone the next.

She had reached for her cup and was sipping the dark brew while Orison, still lost in thought, involuntarily touched his brow.

"Are you OK, Pastor?"

"Yes," he answered. "My head has been aching something fierce this morning. It's finally cleared up." He tapped the open pages of the Bible. "I've been sitting here, wrestling with this scripture, trying to get my mind around what the Lord wants to tell me, and it's like … like something was jamming the signal."

"Which verses?"

"Matthew 24:12." Because Annie Martin frowned, as if she was unfamiliar with the reference, Orison read to her the way he would from a pulpit. "'And because iniquity shall abound, the love of many shall wax cold.'"

"Unpunished sin leads to lawlessness."

Orison couldn't disguise the surprise on his face. "Why … yes."

"You must see quite a bit of that in your travels."

Orison nodded.

"There is one in particular. I shouldn't even mention it, but …"

"Go on, Pastor." She rested her arms on the table, leaned forward. "Whatever you feel comfortable sharing."

"Well, all of this is related to the same convict I described to you the other day. I'll spare you the details of his case, but he's an unsavory fellow all the way around."

His mind drifted to rows of cells at the prison in Marion, Illinois. Rough men in gray jumpsuits, waiting to file into the room used for a chapel. One of the convicts, lingering in his cell, wanted no part of what Orison wished to bring into the prison. This man had just stared at the chaplain with what could only be described as open contempt. Most of them, if they weren't on the way to the chapel to worship or satisfy their curiosity or just kill time, would ignore Orison. The undecided among the hundreds living here might eventually join the small congregation and find their place.

Orison, on his way to the chapel, had glanced at the cell where this fellow was looking out.

Yellow eyes like a dog's, a toothy smile, fists wrapped around the steel bars.

For a moment, Orison's eyes had played tricks on him. The bad lighting of the prison might have flickered, might have caused the pastor to imagine that the convict's form had changed, elongated as only a shadow can, licked outward to seize him. Orison had recoiled, and the convict had …

Laughed.

Unrepentant.

"Donald Pfaster."

"What?" Orison said, snapped back to the present, sitting there with Annie Martin.

"The man that you described? Donald Pfaster?"

"I didn't think I ever mentioned his name specifically."

She smiled sweetly, demurely. "You told me that you didn't want to give me nightmares about him."

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

Though Frank Black knew the ins and outs of the building from his Bureau days, he had never stepped inside this particular basement office before. He was staring at a poster on the wall, a UFO with the words "I Want to Believe" superimposed, when his host spoke.

"You never struck me as the evangelical type, Mr. Black."

Frank tapped the visitor pass clipped to the front of his jacket. "I'm not the sentimental type either. Why am I here, Agent Mulder?"

He took the computer chair that Mulder motioned for him to fill.

"Because I wanted to pick your brain one last time before you flew home."

Frank wasn't surprised. Yesterday, he had spent hours working with Mulder and Scully, feeding whatever details he could provide into their profile of Lucy Butler. For someone who wasn't even assigned to the case, Mulder was taking the woman's disappearance personally. It was the paranormal element that appealed to Mulder, the X-File aspect. He wouldn't let it go.

Frank, stepping back into his days as a consultant, agreed to extend his trip and offer whatever assistance he could. Some part of him felt he owed a favor to the agents. What was left?

While Mulder rummaged through manila folders in a desk drawer, Frank asked, "Agent Scully isn't joining us?"

"She's returning a call from a sheriff's office that merited FBI attention. A suspicious death."

Frank's brow furrowed. "Related to Lucy Butler?"

"The body of a woman reported missing a while back was discovered." Mulder talked as he spread folders out on his desk. "The only thing that seemed to be taken from the victim was her uniform. She was employed with some cleaning service. The cause of death determined by the medical examiner reminded someone in the Bureau of a case you and the Millennium Group worked a few years back."

"Which case?"

"An otherwise healthy 18-year-old male in Seattle died as the result of a coronary," Mulder answered. "Further examination proved the heart attack was triggered by fear. Something literally scared him to death."

Instantly, the trappings of the FBI office disappeared for Frank.

He reeled, experiencing an internal vision.

The devil spread its leathery wings and, engulfed in fire and smoke, lunged at him, fangs bared.

And just as instantly, he was back in the FBI office, where an intrigued Mulder was appraising him.

"Howard Gordon," Frank said. "He was killed the same night that his friend, Landon Bryce, was abducted."

"By who?"

Frank sidestepped. "Tell me more about the housekeeper."

"Lived and worked around Equality, Illinois. Her body was found in – OK, this is a real name, Scully checked it out – Lost Nation, Illinois."

As he processed this information, Frank noticed that Mulder was still staring at him, like a child anticipating another magic trick. It annoyed him. He wanted to get on that flight back home.

"My professional advice, Agent Mulder? Send the sheriff's office in Equality to the cleaning service where your victim was employed. Ask the investigators to quietly check out the woman's replacement. When they try to run down this other person's references – which I'm pretty sure the cleaning service didn't do – they will find big gaps. The victim died so someone could step in for her."

"And what about our investigation here in D.C.?"

Frank stood, rubbed his hands together. He could tell from the other man's expression that Mulder was now irritated. "Is that it?" the agent demanded. "Scully and I shouldn't look any further?"

"This disappearance bothers you," Frank said. "I get that, and I understand why. People aren't supposed to vanish into thin air." Despite the weight he carried as a former FBI profiler and Millennium Group candidate, he knew he risked provoking the other man with what he was going to say. He spoke anyway. "What you need to see, Agent Mulder, is that Lucy Butler isn't Samantha. She wanted to disappear. It's part of her plan."

At the mention of his sister's name, Mulder canted his head and his long face tightened.

"Maybe this is personal for _you_ , Mr. Black. Whatever history you have with Lucy Butler – you want to be the one to bring her in."

Frank chuckled. "Agent Mulder, just a few moments ago, you were mocking me about evangelism. I hope for your sake that you wake up to what you're dealing with, just in case Lucy Butler lets you catch her."

He was on his way out, the last time he ever wanted to set foot in this building, when Agent Dana Scully appeared in the doorway. "And just what is she, Mr. Black?" Scully asked.

Without hesitation: "The devil."

1476 Wicks St.

Equality, Illinois

Soft music from a radio drifted into the second floor hallway from Pastor Orison's apartment. The landlord, passing by on his way to knock on another door, paused and craned his head to listen.

"Love Me Tender," by Elvis Presley.

The old pastor was the kind of guy who kept to himself. It was unusual to hear anything from Orison's place, much less music, but the landlord didn't feel justified in complaining since it was the middle of the day and the volume wasn't loud, not by a long shot. Anyway, the stiff old man probably wasn't even home. More likely, the landlord thought, the housekeeper who stopped in once or twice a week was listening to golden oldies while she dusted.

The housekeeper.

That brunette woman with the nice body had spotted the landlord at the foot of the stairs earlier that day. She was new, and she had stopped and flashed a smile at the landlord. Oh, she filled out that little uniform and blue jeans nicely, but something about the woman's expression had chilled him to the bone. Maybe it was those cold blue eyes. The smile didn't seem to touch them.

The landlord, who had plenty to do around the decrepit building, finally moved on toward the stairs. He had learned over the years that it didn't do to get involved in other people's lives.

If the door had opened, and if he had been able to glimpse inside, he would have seen that the current tenant was indeed home. How Pastor Orison was spending his time …

Well, that depended on your perception.

Orison believed that he was enjoying an impromptu slow dance in the middle of the living room floor with his housekeeper. Annie Martin, swaying slowly in time to the 1956 song, rested her dark head on the old man's shoulder, pressed her lithe body against him. Orison's mouth moved, but he wasn't singing along, wasn't even mouthing the lyrics to the tune. He was whispering a woman's name, a name that he hadn't spoken aloud in 44 years.

Mention of the other woman's name didn't seem to faze Annie Martin. In fact, if you were witnessing this recreation of a moment long past, you might not even see the housekeeper.

Yes, there are snakes in Illinois – copperheads, rattlesnakes – but nothing like what was draped over and around Orison's slender build. This serpent, long and thick, might appear to be the type of constrictor found in rain forests, until it lifted its massive head to reveal slit eyes lit with hellish yellow flame.

Pastor Robert Gallen Orison dreamed he was safe in the arms of a lost love.

In fact, he was being devoured.

And this woman who was no longer a woman, who had given herself over to darkness long ago, whispered in the old man's ear.

"Judgment," Annie Martin/Lucy Butler said. "It falls to you, Robert. God chose you to judge the evil man."

The great serpent, undulating over the victim's shoulder, encircling and coiling its way around the man's chest, tightened its grip.

Orison gasped and opened his eyes. His hands rested on the serpent, not fighting but comfortable now with the smooth scales, and he gazed up, not at the bubble ceiling but a point well beyond.

"Glory, amen."

The world stopped.

"Glory, amen."

"Go find and judge," Lucy Butler hissed. "Find … and judge."

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

Frank wanted to call a cab to take him to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport.

Agent Mulder insisted on signing out a vehicle from the car pool and cajoled his partner into tagging along. Frank, mistakenly believing that this offer from the agent was some last bit of professional courtesy, allowed the agents to shuttle him to his flight. The agents sat up front, with Scully driving.

After a long moment of awkward silence as the vehicle departed from Headquarters, Mulder's motive revealed itself. He wanted to resume his argument with Frank about Lucy Butler.

"So you're telling us that this woman is the devil?" Mulder said. "We got the impression that you fell out with the Millennium Group because of that type of thinking. Are you now subscribing to the idea of a real Apocalypse?"

Frank sighed. Maybe it would be better to appeal to Scully.

"Agent Scully, some of my research for the Bureau and the Group led me to read several X-Files."

Hesitantly, she asked, "Which ones?"

"A good representation," Frank said. "Your travels and investigations took some unusual turns. As a scientist –"

"Medical doctor," Scully said.

"My point is still valid. You're a medical doctor, immersed in science, Agent Scully, and your investigations have brought you face to face with a lot more than just unusual criminals."

Scully glanced in the rearview mirror at Frank's solemn face. "We've had our adventures."

"Take Eddie Van Blundht, for example."

Scully hoped that Mulder didn't notice that her cheeks burned as red as the color of her hair at Frank's reference to the shapeshifter. "Van Blundht used unorthodox means to get what he wanted, but at the end of the day … well, he was just a common date rapist."

Frank continued: "Then there are the strange organisms and human anomalies like Eugene Victor Tooms and Leonard Betts. What would you say they wanted?"

Mulder answered for his partner. "To survive."

While Scully maneuvered the Ford Taurus into traffic and accelerated, her quick mind caught Frank's meaning. "If I'm hearing you correctly, Mr. Black, you're telling us to examine Lucy Butler's motives. What would you say her end game was in disappearing?"

"Malicious mischief."

Mulder wrestled around in his seatbelt so that he could face Frank. "This hypothesis of yours has some serious holes, Mr. Black. Lucy Butler behaves like any other common criminal. Placed in custody, she used the first opportunity she had to run. We just don't know how she got away."

"Do you think this is the first time Lucy, or some aspect of Lucy, has seen the inside of a jail cell, Agent Mulder?"

"She was suspected of killing her son –"

"And she got away with it," Frank said. "Not only that, but she humiliated the police and district attorney's office in the process. It was fun for her. When we apprehended one of her associates for murdering my friend Bletch, in my _own house_ , it was more of the same. Evidence disappeared. Her goal was to intimidate, demoralize. 'Mess with me at your own expense.'"

"Doesn't sound very feasible to me," Mulder said, shaking his head. "Angels and demons, engaged in spiritual warfare on terra firma."

"If I told you I suspected that Lucy Butler was an alien, I'd have your complete attention. Well, I'm sorry, but she's not. Doctors like Agent Scully examined Lucy when she was placed in the intensive care wing at a hospital in Wisconsin. Blood and DNA, the things that we can see, indicate the physical part of her is human."

"The physical part," Mulder said, "but not the spiritual, you mean?"

"What is it with you, Agent Mulder? You proudly proclaim, 'I want to believe,' right up until you get a hint of a spiritual element. Then you become the world's biggest skeptic."

Mulder had no answer ready. He was fuming because he did not wish to entertain the possibility that Frank Black, a profiler whose work he had always respected, was foisting on him. It just didn't fit, not now or ever.

"I'm trying to save you time and heartache, Agent Mulder. The FBI, the Group – we eliminated all other possibilities about her."

"And you're saying the simplest explanation is the correct one."

Frank turned and stared out the window at Washington, D.C. All of the political power gathered in this city, the monuments erected in honor of human achievement, the resources symbolized at a place like the FBI Headquarters – and yet, he and Mulder were sitting here debating whether devils were real. Had he somehow become a witch doctor? No, no - an internal vision of Lucy's true face passed before him, and he shuddered at the peril she presented to them all.

Scully finally weighed in again.

"Whatever we personally believe," she said, choosing her words carefully, "we are still law enforcement officers. Our obligation is to find a federal fugitive, bring her to justice."

"Of course."

"You've been telling us to drop it, not to look any further," Scully said. "That doesn't fit with who you are or who we are, Mr. Black."

"There has been some misunderstanding on that, Agent Scully. My advice wasn't to just walk away and pretend Lucy Butler doesn't exist. As a matter of fact, I think that by interjecting yourselves into this investigation, you are now on her radar. She _knows_ you." Frank shrugged. "My telling you to move on to the next case was just a practical matter, because …"

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances, waiting for it.

"I suspect that, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow – Lucy Butler is going to find _you_."

 **The End**


End file.
